


queen of fire

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Confessions, Deaf Clint Barton, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feels, Jealousy, Minor Original Character(s), Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Clint Barton, POV Third Person, Please Just Talk About Your Feelings Good Grief, Small Towns, Undercover, Undercover Missions, Unwanted Sexual Advances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 10:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20598905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: A story about Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov, and a small town called Deep Pond.





	queen of fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalika999 (kalika_999)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).

> A very happy birthday to Kali, who this is a gift for. Hope it meets your expectations!   
The unwanted sexual advances are not from either Clint or Natasha and it doesn't go anywhere.

“And this is my home. It’s not much, yet, I’m afraid.”

“Wow! And you decorated it all by yourself? You’re so impressive, Natalie.”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing. You deserve the most praise here, with the work you’ve done at the adoption center. Would you like a cup of tea? I can-”

“Hey there, ladies. I’ve already put the kettle on,” Clint says as they round the corner.

Natasha freezes in the doorway when he speaks. It’s only for a split second, certainly not enough for the brunette behind her to notice, but Clint sees it. Registers the barely-visible flicker of fear before it’s wiped back into her perfect mask. Normally she’s more alert than this - it makes a tiny thread of worry drop down his spine.

Then she’s approaching him with a click of too-high heels, a cool smile on her lips. “Hello, sweetheart. You’re back early.”

“Oh, you know how Phil is, honey,” he answers, leans in when she cups his jaw and presses a quick kiss to his lips. “Work is all over the place right now.”

Natasha gives him a hum of acknowledgement, lets go of him in a way that drags her fingernails across his skin. They’re not sharp, perfectly manicured french tips, but it feels dangerous anyway. Clint doesn’t move from his position on the precarious-looking bar stool, licks his lips briefly and then throws a casual smile over Natasha’s shoulder at the new woman.

“Hi there,” he says, when she doesn’t stop staring. “Nat, aren’t you going to introduce your lovely friend?”

The woman goes a truly impressive shade of red. “Oh! I, um.”

“This is Janine, she’s showing me around town,” Natasha says, turning back to her guest. “Janine, this is my boyfriend, Chad.”

“Nice to meet you, Janine,” Clint greets, slides an arm across Natasha’s shoulders. The dress she’s wearing is sleeveless, and her skin feels warm from the midday sun that’s outside. She leans against his side, trusts him to hold her weight, and even if Clint can’t see her face he knows that she’s smiling. “Thanks for looking after my girl while I was away.”

“You- you’re welcome,” she manages. She’s still staring at him like he’s a unicorn come to life. It’s like she’s never seen a shirtless man before - Clint knows he’s all sweaty and rumpled from the long drive over here, but is he really _that _gross?

“Did you still want that drink?”

“I might- erm,” Janine says. “I might head home for today, if that’s alright with you, Natalie.”

“Of course,” Natasha replies. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

Clint watches them walk off and then sighs, gets up to pour himself an obscenely large cup of coffee. He’d searched for hours at the general store in town and come up with the cheapest shit money could buy. The town of Deep Pond doesn’t even show up on maps anymore because the population is so tiny. Clint had gotten lost three times even with the GPS directing him.

Man, he hates these places.

Natasha comes back as he’s refilling the cup, snatches it from his fingers and tips it in the sink. Clint doesn’t make a move to rescue the drink - it's not worth it.

It’s still sad, though. He watches dismally as the precious brown liquid goes trickling down the drain. She doesn’t look at him until she’s rinsed out the cup as well to make sure he can’t get a single drop, and _then _she fixes him with a glare that’s extremely out of place with her sundress and perfectly curled hair. Unfortunately, she’s trying it with the one person who she can’t intimidate - except maybe Fury, but Nick wouldn’t do anything to warrant a glare of that power.

“Chad? _Really?_ You get a nice normal name like Natalie and I have to be fucking _Chad?_ Do you want me to wear a polo shirt and brag about my sports scholarship? That’s cruel, Nat,” he says.

“You deserve it for putting me on the spot like that,” she retorts, folding her arms over her chest.

They spend a few long minutes just staring each other down. Anyone who didn’t know Natasha like the back of their hand would think she’s just angry, but Clint can see the unease in the way she’s holding herself. She’s extremely uncomfortable, she’s just not showing it. He feels a fucking _stupid _pang of guilt at that even though it isn’t his fault, tries to push it aside.

“Look, this wasn’t my idea,” he says, raises his hands up defensively.

“What are you _doing _here,” she hisses.

“Coulson ordered me. There might be something deeper here and he wanted to give you backup,” Clint says, lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “They didn’t have anyone else to send. Sorry. I checked.”

The fire in her eyes dies down a little bit at that, but she’s still frowning. Unhappy. Clint knows how she feels. He’s still half-expecting to be kicked back into the Jeep he’d parked out back and sent on his way. Still, he wouldn’t lie about the Coulson thing and she knows it, so she just lets out a sigh and sets down the cup a little _too _hard onto the counter. He doesn’t flinch.

Clint just turns around and heads for the shower. There’s no point trying to talk to her about it - it’s like cornering a wild animal, she’ll lash out at him if he brings it up now. If she doesn’t want to talk to him then he’s not going to push her. 

Right before he unhooks his aids from his ears, he hears her throw a shoe at the wall.

Fair enough.

The shower helps to take off the edge, but he’s still antsy.

He looks in the mirror, wonders whether he looks any different. Same slightly crooked nose, same half-assed stubble growing along his jaw, same scar above his left eyebrow. Even the shadows under his eyes still look the same, which is weird because he doesn’t _feel _the same, not really. Clint sighs and resists the urge to jump back in under the spray for another hour.

He’s been doing this for weeks.

He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for anymore.

Natasha heats up some leftovers for dinner.

It’s just bland, flavourless pasta but Clint takes it anyway, downs the lot as Natasha opens her laptop and starts writing a report. Even with the stereotypical homely small-town girl look she’s got going on, it hasn’t made her any more inclined to feed herself properly. Clint looks in the fridge as he’s dumping his plate in the sink and thinks that he’s going to have to go shopping tomorrow.

It’s bad, when he has to be the functional one. He’s _not _the functional one, not really, but neither is Natasha when it comes down to it. Maybe they should’ve sent Hill instead. Natasha would probably prefer Maria.

“So,” he says. “You keep doing what you’re doing and I’ll run surveillance on a few places, check out what I can come up with?”

“I doubt you’re going to be much help talking about Surrealism,” she answers dryly. “Especially as _Chad_. I’m trying to gain information from a man through avant-garde art movements, it’s not exactly your style.”

She’s right, but. “I’ll head out early in the morning, then. Might scout around the farming areas- the barns would be big enough to contain the equipment that went missing from SHIELD, right? The generator thing?”

“It would be,” Natasha agrees. “I have surveillance gear in the cupboards.”

Clint wanders over there, opens it up to have a look. It’s all high-quality stuff, probably StarkTech - Tony’s been working on better spy gear for them in his spare time. Even their suits are under scrutiny. Apparently black jumpsuits aren’t good enough for Avengers, even when they’re not Avenging. Clint doesn't complain. He's lived life as dirt-poor as you can get and he just likes free things, really. He pulls out a nanobot the size of his fingernail, presses a tiny button on the top and watches it whir to life.

“Stop playing,” Natasha orders, even though she hasn’t looked up from her screen once.

“You’re no fun,” he says, switches it off and returns it to the drawer. There’s no heat in his voice, just a tired sort of amusement that sounds weak even to his own ears. His hair’s still damp, a few strands curling over his forehead, and he pushes them back as he knees the drawer shut.

Natasha doesn’t react to any of it and he listens to the steady clack of keys as he approaches the window facing the street. Clint looks outside into the darkness, only interrupted by the yellow glow from some lights on the road. He wonders how many of these houses are abandoned. That one’s got part of the roof caved in, so there’s a few.

He kind of understands why the people they’re looking for would hide here. Deep Pond is the ideal place to be if you don’t want to be in the public eye. Clint’s not sure a normal person would come here even if there _was _a good reason for it. It’s… quiet. Too quiet.

He hates small towns.

“Why’s it called Deep Pond, anyway?”

“There’s a deep pond in the town center,” Natasha answers. “It’s a simple name. There’s a place in New Mexico called Pie Town, another in Colorado called No Name. Mexican Hat in Utah, named for a rock that looks like a ‘Mexican hat.’ People are simple.”

“Huh,” Clint says. “How ‘bout that.”

He stays where he is for a while, watches the street, but even with how antsy he is, he’s exhausted. Clint’s been driving for three days straight with only short naps on the roadside - it’s been a mess of an order and he misses his bow and his dog and Kate, and they wouldn’t even let him use the Jet. _Too suspicious,_ they said, not giving a shit about him dying on the drive from stress and sleep deprivation.

Clint feels like he’s been dragged along a gravel road for twenty miles, and that’s not even counting the Natasha situation.

“Fuck. I gotta close my eyes,” he says, more to himself than to Natasha, turns away from the fogged-up glass and kicks off his shoes. There’s only one bedroom in this tiny house, so he takes a few steps over to the couch, prepares himself for a night of backache and broken sleep. It’s better than nothing.

“Clint,” Natasha says with an edge in her voice and he stops halfway through falling onto the cushions, blinks over at her. Is he going to have to sleep in the Jeep?

The _worst _part about that idea, he thinks, is that he’d do it without a second thought if it would make her more comfortable.

“Just get in the bed, Clint,” she says with a decisive click of her laptop shutting.

He frowns. “That’s not- you don’t have to, Nat.”

“I know,” she says archly, stands up. “Come on.”

Clint’s not expecting it, but he doesn’t fight it when she starts herding him down the hallway. Mostly because he’s too tired to protest. The bedroom is simple, less fancy than the rest of the house with the plain white sheets and fluffy black blanket. A delicate hand lands in the square of his back and pushes him towards the bed and he takes a few steps, stops.

“I just-” he starts.

“Go to sleep, Barton,” she orders.

He ends up under the sheets before he starts worrying again, and then he twists in Natasha’s direction, looks at her silhouetted from the light on in the hall. He hasn’t taken his aids out yet, and she sighs at him. Then she's approaching, tilting his face to the left gently so she can remove them for him like she's done a thousand times before. He lets her, the anxiety still twisting hard and relentless in his stomach.

“Natasha,” he says. Doesn’t say anything else.

This close, he can see how she carefully isn’t making eye contact with him. She’s still touching him, though, graceful fingers curled around his jaw the same way she always does when he’s a little messed up and needs help. She doesn’t reply, though, just hooks the aid out of one ear and sets it next to the lamp. Clint tilts his head obligingly when she goes for the other one, doesn’t question her.

“Go to sleep,” she repeats before she takes out the second one and the world fades into silence.

Clint expects her to leave once she’s done, and for a moment she looks like she’s going to. Then he watches her sag a little like she’s defeated, and she reaches around to unzip her dress. Clint doesn’t watch her set it down, closes his eyes against a sight he’s seen a million times because it feels _wrong _somehow. The mattress dips a few seconds later with her weight and Clint feels sleep tug at him, underneath the current of dread sitting in his chest.

He thinks about how this would’ve been normal a few weeks ago, as natural as breathing and now it’s just _not_.

If people are so simple, then why is everything _they _do so fucking complicated?

When he wakes up again the bed is still warm, but Natasha is gone.

He gets up and goes hunting for the coffeepot.

It’s so _cold _out in the fields. Clint almost wishes it’d snow, because it’s somehow __worse __with the wind tearing razor-sharp at his skin and the clouds smothering any sunlight to warm himself under. He pulls the scarf a little more firmly around his neck and tries not to drop his phone into the dirt.

“Katniss, honey,” Tony greets, pure delight in his voice. “How’s it going?”

Clint’s not impressed. “‘m fine.”

“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you for a few weeks,” Tony continues. “Didn’t you and Romanov head off somewhere private? I bet it’s a really fancy love nest, knowing her. We were all expecting it, after what happened. Is it-”

“_Stark,_” he interrupts sharply. “How do I get the the nanobots to start flying?”

A long pause. “That’s really kinky. I’m not sure I’m okay with that.”

“For _surveillance,_” Clint says, keeps his voice calm and even. Channels the little bit of Natasha that lingers in his brain. “I’m on a mission. I need to fly it into a barn. Are you going to tell me how to drive it or not?”

“I already sent the instructions and the video tutorial through to your phone,” Tony says, sounds puzzled. “Are you telling me that you’re on a mission when you just g-”

Clint hangs up on him.

Sure enough, the instructions have been sent to his phone in a neat little PDF file. They’re simple enough that Clint gets the hang of it quickly, pulls up the little screen and starts surveying the areas he doesn’t want to get caught breaking into. He misses the city, the dingy alleyways and people yelling on the streets, and the pizza delivery place that’s only five minutes away and gives him the old pieces of garlic bread. He misses the busy nature of New York.

This is why he hadn’t stayed in Iowa - being in an empty field with nothing but his own thoughts is _awful_. Thinking is awful. Clint misses the days he could just space out with his bow in hand, staying crouched for hours, lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike. As it is, his mind wanders.

And of course, it has to immediately wander back to exactly fifteen days ago.

It was Clint’s fault, really. He shouldn’t have let her had that last drink - it’s hard to _tell_ sometimes if Natasha is drunk or not, because she stays exactly the same no matter what she’s been ingesting. He’d been drinking too, less than her, but that’s no excuse.

Clint had been clear-headed enough to know what was going on, could’ve said _no, this isn’t right_ when she got ahold of the front of his shirt and pulled him up to the bedroom. Could’ve said _no _when she pushed him down onto the messy sheets, could’ve said _no _when she started working his pants off, could’ve but didn’t. He didn’t have to help her when she got stuck trying to unclasp her bra or when she sunk down on his dick, unbearably hot and wet around him, but he _had,_ and he’d been so fucking _weak_.

She’d just looked so _happy_.

He’s not any better than the rest of the men in Natasha’s past, and he _knows _he’s a dirtbag because he still thinks about the way she’d moaned against his neck.

It’s his fault.

They’d avoided sleeping together for _years_ before this, practically a lifetime, being closer than two people should be. It’s always Hawkeye _and _the Black Widow, one never being far from the other. Steve had once called them two halves of the same person, with a sad smile on his face like he was remembering someone else.

And then Natasha had fled from his apartment the morning after with a haunted look in her eyes and makeup smudged around her face.

He’d let her go, too. Hadn’t known what else to do.

Clint _knows _Natasha’s past, knows she’s never seen sex as anything but a weapon in her arsenal. She’s never actively wanted it, never sought it out in the whole time he’s known her. Whatever she’d been thinking that night, he doesn’t know, but he knows he shouldn’t have allowed it, because now it’s all weird and wrong and _he fucked up,_ simple as that.

As much as he misses New York, he misses Natasha more.

“You guys got hot dogs?”

“We’ve got what’s in the meat fridge, pal, that’s it,” the disgruntled store owner replies.

Clint sighs and squeezes his way between shelves stacked with tins of beans and disturbing-looking paintings of naked women to the fridge. Must be from the artist that Nat is being pals with. He had driven through the town square - if it could be called that - on the way to Natasha’s house, and it’s dismal. There’s a single store crammed with as much crap as possible and an abandoned-looking gas station and that’s it.

The surveillance results had come up with nothing. If there’s stolen tech here, it’s not with the farmers. The only notable thing Clint saw was an elderly man getting dressed behind the hay bales, and he’s still trying to purge it from his mind. He’s out of ideas, but he’s not fond of the idea of sitting in the house and letting Natasha do all the work while he grows mould.

Deep Pond is _shit_.

He gives up and picks up a package of unknown sausage meat, figures that’s the best he can do. They’ve had worse over the years. Mystery meat isn’t going to kill either of them. There’s no baskets in this place, so he’s forced to balance it on top of the loaf of bread and the bag of frozen vegetables.

“Oh! It’s- it’s you.”

Clint glances sideways to see the woman from yesterday. She’s wearing yoga pants and a nervous stare, and he inwardly swears before he pulls up the casual smile. Fuck, he was hoping to avoid as much social contact as purpose. “Morning. Janine, right?”

“Yes. That’s me,” she says, looks at his chest. That’s fair, considering she’s about half his size and doesn’t seem inclined to make eye contact. It might hurt her neck to look up at him like that anyway. “You’re Chad.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees reluctantly. He realizes he’s probably blocking something a second later - the place feels like it was made for people a lot smaller than him. Mice, maybe. “Sorry, were you trying to get to the… pork brains?” What the _fuck_.

“No,” she answers, but she doesn’t move. She’s blocking the only way out from the shelves. It’d be impolite to hip-check her out of the way and there’s no room for that, anyway. He’d like to do that, but he’s stuck smiling awkwardly at her as she shifts on her feet.

“I was wondering if you might like to come to tea,” she blurts out. Clint blinks as she continues. “There- er, I’d like to discuss something. With you.”

_Oh_. Shit, does she know who he is? He can usually walk around the streets and no one pays him any heed. Even the _cops _thought he was Danny Rand. From the way she’s talking, though, she seems more nervous than upset. He looks a little closer at her expression, takes in the way she’s glancing in the shopkeeper’s direction like she’s worried about being overhead.

Maybe she has _intel_. Shit, that’d be a turn of good luck. Clint feels the first rush of adrenaline he’s felt in weeks, shifts the food in his arms so he can look at Janine properly. She looks like she’s about to run out of the room entirely.

“What time are you thinking?”

She seems surprised by his agreement. “Um. Tomorrow? My husband goes out to his friend’s house at two."

“Alright,” Clint agrees. “Sounds good. I’ll see you then?”

“My house is the one with the blue mailbox,” she says, and then she’s gone before he can continue questioning her.

It’s a good thing there’s only like, three streets in Deep Pond or he’d be screwed. Newly revived, he takes his spoils to the counter, takes his wallet out and rummages around for his card. The shopkeeper just looks at him when he pulls the black piece of plastic out, and Clint pauses. Takes a look at the old-fashioned metal cash register. Right. Cash only.

God, he hates small towns.

Natasha comes back just as he’s grating cheese idly, thinking about whether he needs to look particularly Avenger-y for tomorrow.

It probably doesn’t matter. He’s just going to wear jeans.

She perches neatly on the other side of the counter, slides the bowl of chili over to her side. Clint passes her a spoon and turns back to ladle another round for himself, now his intended meal has been taken. When he turns back and lets himself actually _look _this time, Natasha is staring into the food like it’s going to reveal the secrets of the world to her.

Normally he’d sling an arm around her, tell her something fantastically dumb to tease a reaction out of her. Horrifically incorrect facts (“Tasha, did you know that the moon is a_planet?”_) usually earn mild outrage, describing the plot of whatever he’s been watching on the TV earn him an amused but tolerant smile.

Instead, he shoves an absurdly large mouthful of chili in his mouth to make sure he doesn’t say anything stupid.

The mouthful is too big. He chokes.

How does he manage to fuck up something as simple as _eating?_ Although, it’s very on-par for him. Somewhere during his coughing fit fingers end up splayed between his shoulder blades and rub gently. Clint’s still got his head half-in the sink, trying to catch his breath. Natasha’s hand is warm through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

It’s comforting in a way he hasn’t felt for fifteen long days, and the sharp pang in his chest stabs right through him and out the other side. He’s _missed _this.

It slips out before he means it to. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.” _I care about you too much to lose you over something as simple as sex,_ he thinks, doesn’t say. Natasha doesn't like feelings. “We can pretend it didn’t happen,” is what comes out his mouth.

The hand on his back stills.

_Shit,_ Clint thinks. He shouldn’t have brought it up at all, should he? Stupid. Even _he _knows he’s got the tact of a steroid-ridden elephant. Clint should’ve just shoved it out of his mind entirely, maybe found that Hydra brainwashing chair that Tony’s been taking apart.

“Right,” Natasha says. “Sure.”

It sounds stilted, but her voice is flat. No inflection that he can pick up, although that doesn’t mean that there wasn’t one. He can’t see her face like this. Can’t tell what’s going on in her head. To be fair, he probably wouldn’t be able to tell what was going on even if he _could _see her expression.

Her hand disappears from his back. “I’m going for a shower. Don’t choke and die until I get back.”

Clint thinks that maybe he died that night with her thighs wrapped around his ears, in the best and worst way possible.

“I’m sorry,” he says when they’re in bed together. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No,” she answers. “You were right. We should do that.”

He tilts his head to the side, looks over at her. They’re carefully laid apart on the bed, mostly because Clint is right on the edge of the mattress on his side, on their backs so they don’t have to look at each other unless they want to. Neither of them are sleeping, they’re just staring at the ceiling and pretending like they are.

Natasha’s face is completely neutral when he takes it in, her face washed silver in the moonlight. She’s washed off the day’s makeup and her hair is spilling in soft curls onto the pillow, and she looks empty for some reason he’ll probably never know.

Clint’s - he doesn’t know how Natasha packs away all her feelings like that, settles them out of sight and out of mind the way she does. She’s _neat_. Clint’s messy as fuck, he wears all his feelings on his sleeves in glaring colour, blatantly obvious to anyone that looks at him. He’s a neon tornado of emotion and she’s a black box, and he doesn’t know what to _do_.

Well, she’d said that they should pretend it didn’t happen, so he’s going to go with that.

“I might have a lead,” he says.

“I haven’t gotten anything yet from the artist,” she answers. “All I have to do is sit while he paints me, though, so there’s plenty of time to pry information from him.”

“I’m sure we’ll get it,” Clint says, tries for reassuring. He doesn’t _feel _reassuring, but he’s trying. Natasha doesn’t say anything else and they fall into an uneasy silence that feels worse than the first night, because he doesn’t pass out immediately.

Instead, he’s horrendously alert, his body waiting for something that doesn’t come, and Natasha seems to be the same.

Sleep doesn’t come for a long time after that.

Once again, Natasha is gone when he wakes up.

Clint definitely does not roll over to her side of the bed and bury his face in her pillow for a good twenty minutes. And even if he does, he _definitely _doesn’t pull the covers over his head so he can silently inhale the scent of her shampoo still lingering on the sheets.

He’s not _that _pathetic.

The afternoon comes around before he’s ready for it.

Clint pulls on a pair of jeans without holes, tries to look the least intimidating he can manage. Not that he looks intimidating to begin with, but he’s aiming for the easygoing country boy appearance. The flannel shirt helps, once he shoves it up his elbows. He’s soft enough to coax information out of a middle-aged woman, and once he’s eaten the cold chili he realizes he’s going to have to walk to Janine’s house so people don't know he's there.

Ugh. It’s cold.

Whatever Janine’s got, Clint hopes it’s enough that he can get out of this place and never think about it again. He’s never despised a town quite as much as he despises Deep Pond - it’s earned a special kind of hate in his heart, one he usually reserves for twenty-dollar hipster coffee and hospitals. He’s worried that he might miss the blue mailbox and then he spots it from a mile away, because it is very, _very _blue.

Neon, even.

Jesus _Christ_.

He rings the doorbell and doesn’t pay attention to the tune it makes, looks out into the distance and wonders which house Natasha goes to everyday. Clint’s sort of envious of the guy who gets to sit there staring at her with the excuse of painting a portrait. What a job to have. Then again, the guy does have to live in Deep Pond, so maybe he deserves the reprieve.

Janine opens the door and then looks behind him, out into the street. She looks wary. Probably making sure no one’s watching, which is fair. Clint glances back as well. Shit, what if the whole town is in on it and it turns into some kind of _Hot Fuzz_ scenario? He didn’t see a horse on any of the farms he stalked.

“Come in,” she says eventually, stepping out of the way.

Clint scans the hallway as he walks in the direction of the dining table, takes in the photos on the wall. Janine’s husband is balding and more often than not pictured wearing yellow shirts, which is a terrible fashion choice but not particularly villainous. He stops at the table and takes a seat, twists around so he can see Janine standing there.

“I don’t normally do this,” she says.

Telling on the town? Clint can imagine. Small town like this, loyalty’s probably a big deal. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Nothing bad’s going to happen.”

She smiles at him faintly. “I know.”

“Alright,” Clint says. “Good. So, what did you-”

He doesn’t get to finish what he was trying to say, because a fist twists rough in the cotton of his shirt and he’s yanked forward. For a split second he thinks he’s had a terrible lapse of judgement and that Janine’s one of the bad guys, that he’s going to die in this awful fucking town without telling Natasha-

-something. He doesn’t know what.

Then he realizes Janine’s _kissing _him, and this _was _indeed a terrible lapse of judgement but not in the way he’d originally thought.

She sits herself in his lap and he balks, tries to leans out of the way even though the chair doesn’t give him much room. Why is she so _close? _“I don’t think this is- this is _wrong_, we’re not-” _doing this,_ he tries to say, but Janine sticks her fingers in his mouth.

Clint considers biting them off. It’d cause a scene, though, and in a town like this it’d get around immediately. No more mission. He can't fuck this up for Natasha, she's been working so hard. He tries to twist out of the chair, but it’s got a high back and complicated-looking armrests, which means the only escape is currently blocked by Janine’s considerable weight. She didn’t _look _that heavy.

“It’s okay. Your girlfriend doesn’t need to know. She seems like a frigid bitch anyway,” Janine whispers while trying to lick his jaw. “I’ll give you what you need.”

Clint flinches involuntarily at the comment, thinks that this is exactly the _opposite _of what he needs. Being assaulted by a horny housewife is not high on his list of priorities. Janine’s hands are on his shirt now, tugging at it haphazardly until Clint feels something tear.

The doorbell rings.

Clint holds his breath.

“It can wait until I’m done with you,” Janine whispers and Clint’s known for having a strong stomach- he’s eaten bad food, milk that’s been off for days, stuff for the garbage, but he’s definitely going to puke if she keeps going.

The doorbell rings again. “Janine?” Natasha’s voice makes them both freeze, although Janine’s is because of fear and Clint’s is just pure, unadulterated _relief_. “Is Chad with you?”

“Fuck,” Janine says.

_Thankfully not,_ Clint thinks to himself as she gets off of him reluctantly.

The look Natasha gives Janine when she enters the dining room and sees Clint is downright _lethal_. Clint doesn’t know what he looks like, but his shirt is sitting funny and his face hurts a little. His hair’s probably a nightmare, and Janine's scratched his neck on top of all that. He feels dumb and embarrassed, although it’s nothing compared to the unsettled buzz in his veins.

“We’re going home,” Natasha says, leaving no room for argument. 

Clint gets up gratefully and follows her as she stalks back down the hallway. Janine follows them for a few steps and then stops.

“Natalie,” she says, a little desperate-sounding. “You know what Greg is like, I just-”

Natasha whips around so fast that Clint nearly knocks a photograph off of the wall. “Don’t ever come near us again. You _disgust _me.”

It's- he's never seen her do that before. Clint’s so shocked that he doesn’t say a single word, and neither does Janine, as Natasha turns and walks out. He’s got no other choice but to follow, silently questioning his own life choices and also everyone else’s on top of that.

“Perfect timing,” Clint says when they get home, sags onto the couch. “Seriously. Thank you.”

“Interesting _lead _you had there, Barton,” Natasha remarks.

“I can’t believe I thought she had intel. I should’ve _known _from the way she was staring at me the first time we met,” Clint groans. “Fuck. I need to have like, fifty showers, I feel dirty.”

A pause. “You weren’t there to sleep with her?”

He raises his head from the backrest then, gaze landing on Natasha. She’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest, looking for all the part like an angel of death, beautiful and daunting. The blatant rage that was in her eyes has died down significantly from the way it had been at Janine’s, though.

“Why would I want to sleep with her? I don’t want her.” It’s dangerously close to admitting what he _does _want, and Clint feels it rise up his throat, fights it back down again.

“You were just sitting there,” Natasha says.

“She caught me by surprise,” he admits. “It was dumb. I was tired and desperate for some sort of clue to the mission and I misread her. By the time I realized she’d already grabbed me and tried to choke me on her tongue.”

There’s another pause, Natasha wearing a scrutinizing expression like she’s trying to pick him apart with her eyes alone. He just looks back at her. Evidently she doesn’t find anything through her attempts, because after a few beats she looks down at her red pumps instead, shifts on her feet. It’s a very _shifty _move on her part. Clint tilts his head to the side curiously.

“You can defend yourself,” Natasha says and she sounds almost _petulant_.

“If I’d attacked her it would’ve blown your cover,” Clint answers. “Small town like this, ‘m pretty sure showing any sort of experienced combat would tip everyone off.”

Natasha stays silent this time, and when he actually turns to her she’s scowling. Like she’s angry that he let Janine touch him. Like she’s- no. There’s no way she’s actually _jealous _right now. It’s probably just that she’s angry about Clint being stupid. Which is fair enough, this was _his _bad, all the way.

Although her murderous look had been directed at _Janine_, not him.

Huh.

“What were you doing at her house anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be getting painted?”

Natasha turns her head away, which is suspicious enough, but before they’re out of view he sees her cheeks flush pink. Clint stops. Stares. She’s still got her arms folded - now it seems more like a defensive stance rather than an angry one. Was she- _following _him? It seems impossible. It’s unfathomable.

“Tash,” he says, and his voice comes out hoarse. “Natasha. What does it _mean?”_

Natasha wraps her arms tighter around herself. She looks small and _scared _like this, in a way that Clint hasn’t seen before and never wants to see ever again. His stomach twists hard under his skin with unease and he thinks about running away, thinks about letting Natasha run away. But if there’s even the smallest chance that he’s right, he can’t just leave it alone.

“I don’t know,” she says in a small voice. “I don’t know.”

Their relationship has always been based entirely on balance, but not in the normal way; Natasha reflects his state like a mirror, takes his cues and acts upon them. Clint’s not sure she even realizes she’s doing it, but he does. He knows her as much as one person can know another - more than that, maybe. He knows that if he crumbles now, if he gives into that fear and dread pooling in his stomach, she’s going to get scared as well. And Natasha’s reaction to true fear has always been to escape it.

He can’t lose her, not like this, so he takes a deep breath and steadies himself.

“Let’s figure it out, then,” he says.

They don’t talk about it right away.

Clint makes dinner again and Natasha stirs the pot while he tries to fix the television antennae so they can watch a show. It doesn’t want to find a signal, though, not in fucking _Deep Pond,_ so he turns the radio on instead, lets the music fill the silence as they eat. The air feels like it’s heavy and he’s nearly drowning in the tension when Natasha says she’s going for a shower.

He sits on the bed and waits.

Eventually, she enters the room and sits down on the mattress, and then she settles so the lines of her back are pressed up against his. Clint gets it. This way they don’t have to look each other in the eye if they’re going to be baring their souls. He feels safer this way too, like somehow the lack of eye contact will protect them from their own feelings.

There’s a beat of heavy silence and Clint realizes that he’s going to have to get the ball rolling, because even if Natasha is agreeing to this, it doesn’t mean she’s any better at talking about her feelings.

“I thought you regretted it,” he says.

“I _do _regret it,” she answers.

Well, that's a punch to the gut. It feels like he’s been dunked in ice water, but he waits out the uncomfortable pause. She’s hot against his spine, still overheated from the shower and the way she’s tied up her hair means he can feel damp curls against the back of his neck. Natasha sighs, tips her head back so she’s resting her weight against him.

“I’ve never liked it,” she confesses and it’s barely audible. “I’ve never wanted it.”

“I know,” he says. “I _know _that, Tasha.”

She sighs.

He waits.

“I liked it with _you,_” she says and she sounds lost. “You just. You just let me, and you had this _stupid _smile on your face the whole time like it was perfect even though I was drunk and I didn’t have any makeup on and I was wearing underwear with cats printed on them.”

“It was perfect,” Clint admits. “It was perfect because it was _you_.”

Natasha laughs, a little hysterical-sounding. It’s strange, for her, but everything _about _this is already as weird as it can get. Clint feels a little bit like he’s in a surreal dream he can’t wake up from. He’s sitting with his hand out to the side, and he bravely refrains from jumping when he feels something touch his palm. It’s just Natasha, though, and her fingers lace with his and squeeze tightly enough to hurt.

“Loki asked me once if it was love,” she says.

“He knew, with me,” Clint replies, remembers a blue light and Loki’s knowing chuckle as Clint spilled every little detail he’d painstakingly collected about Natasha Romanov. It had been glaringly obvious. Clint feels like he’s always been in love with Natasha, like it’s just his default setting and he doesn’t know how to be anything else. “He knew the minute he got ahold of me.”

“You love everyone,” Natasha says softly. “It’s what makes you strong. But I-”

“You’re allowed to love people too,” he interrupts.

A pause. “I’m scared,” she admits.

“Me too,” he confesses, because this feels more terrifying than the thousands of times he’s brushed death. He needs Natasha like he needs to _breathe _and she’s the same, they’re horrifically codependent and if they fuck this up then they lose more than just the sex. “Maybe we should just. Baby steps?”

“Yes,” Natasha agrees. “Baby steps.”

They fall into silence for a few long minutes. Clint doesn’t know what to say. Natasha probably doesn’t know what to say either. It’s surreal, being in love with someone for so long that the ache under your ribs feels _natural _and then realizing it wasn’t unrequited after all. It feels like he should be more shocked, should be running outside to scream at the darkness that the night provides him. Natasha’s warmth leaves his back and he twists around instantly, panicked, only to have her trap his cheeks in her hands.

“Baby steps,” Natasha repeats, before she leans in and kisses him like he’s going to fade into nothing if she doesn’t.

“I’m not entirely sure that this _is _baby steps,” Clint says.

“It’s a good thing I didn’t ask you then,” Natasha says archly. She raises an eyebrow at him in a mock-unimpressed stare which is immediately ruined when she slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle the noise she makes.

Clint can’t help the grin that overtakes him, curls his fingers inside her to watch the way her muscles tense up. He’s leaning over her on one hand, comfortably braced so he can watch the expressions she makes while he works on driving her out of her mind. Natasha’s slick under his fingers, and he’s going slow because there’s _no way_ he isn’t going to savour this. It also has the bonus of making Natasha swear at him with no consequences.

It’s _so _much better than the first time.

The first time had felt like a dream, soft at the edges and tasting of cheap whiskey. This time it feels almost violently real, where he can feel every inch of Natasha, study her face as she bites her lip hard enough to be painful. She’s so goddamn beautiful that he wants to cry, a little bit.

They haven’t gotten undressed properly - Clint’s still wearing his jeans and socks and Natasha’s stolen an old Motionless In White shirt of his, although it’s been pushed up enough that he can lean down and press his lips to her stomach, the bottom of her ribcage, the soft curve of her chest. Natasha arches up a little and he presses the flat of his hand against her clit, delights in the little breathy noise she makes.

“_Clint,_” she breathes, and it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. “If you don’t get me off I’m going to kill you.”

“No you won’t,” Clint replies, presses his smug smile into her stomach. He nips a second later and she twitches, exhales a breath hard enough for even him to hear. “You _like _me.”

“That can always change,” she warns, but there’s no venom in it.

Still, he’s nothing if not accommodating, so he speeds up his unhurried thrusts, remembers the pace and rhythm she’d gone at the first time and mimics it. He lifts his face from her skin when she goes tense, looks up at her and mouths _I love you_ at her when she meets his stare. He's not sure he can say it out loud without his voice cracking, but it has the same effect.

She comes with a shudder and Clint’s gaze stays fixed on her face, drinks in the way her mouth goes slack with pleasure, keeps going until she’s trembling with it and trying to weakly smack his hand away. He relents, then, withdraws and almost absently tongues at his fingers. Natasha’s got her eyes closed, but when she opens them a few seconds later she stares at him.

He watches her back, takes quiet pride in how messy she looks right now.

“_Fuck,_” she says and her voice wobbles.

“Still like me now?”

Natasha doesn’t answer, just covers her face with her hands, and Clint’s smugness drains away instantly when he hears her make a noise dangerously close to a sob. Her breathing’s gone shaky and panic rises up his throat and threatens to choke him. Shit, surely he can’t have fucked it up this quickly? It’d be very on-brand for him, but still. _Fuck._

Clint squirms his way up the bed ungracefully, hovers nervously because he’s not sure if touching is welcome right now or not. There’s a few heartbeats where he thinks he’s going to be sleeping outside again and then Natasha rolls into him, presses her face into his chest. Her skin feels overheated and he tentatively wraps himself around her, but she doesn’t tell him to fuck off.

“You’re supposed to be the stable one,” Clint chastises her, but gently. Now _he _feels like crying.

Natasha snorts. “I _am _the stable one.”

They lay there for a few more minutes until Natasha’s breathing evens out slightly. Normally there’d be the sounds of the city to fill the silence, but in Deep Pond there’s _nothing _at all, just them. Then she shifts in his arms like she’s considering escape. Clint’s not quite ready to let her go, though, so he holds on a little tighter and she sighs.

“Give me a second and I’ll blow you,” she says.

“No offence, Tash, I’d love that and your mouth is the thing of my dreams, but no. It’s not an obligation, and you’re…” he doesn’t say _upset_, because he’s fairly sure that even emotional, he’ll get hit for that. He’s still a little turned on, but it’s slid down to a low buzz that he can ignore. "Raincheck?"

Natasha being okay is more important than getting off. She seems to accept his refusal, tangles their legs together instead. 

Clint can honestly say he’s more delighted that she’s initiated _cuddling _than he would be with her initiating sex. Both things are good, but. It’s a rare thing to be treasured, and he’s fairly sure she can sense his grin without looking based on the way her nails dig into his chest.

“Why are you like this,” she says, not really a question.

“Charming?”

“Stupid,” she amends.

“_You’re _the one that likes me,” he says, and she lets out a quiet huff of amusement.

“I guess I am,” she says.

“Have you actually found _any _hints to evil going on in this town?”

“No,” Natasha says, fishes her shoes out from behind the couch. Clint has no idea how they got there and he’s not sure he _wants _to know, so he just focuses on making the coffee. Baby steps. “The artist hasn’t told me anything other than the painting techniques he likes using, and about his dog.”

“A dog?”

“Down, boy. Leave the man’s dog alone,” she says with amusement. She looks- freer, somehow. Relaxed. There's a little bubble of pride in Clint's chest. “I’m going to call Phil.”

Clint snickers but adds the sugar and milk to Natasha’s coffee and slides it over. It’s funny, how people think that she’s so hardcore that she _must _have black coffee. Clint had thought so for a while too, because she wouldn’t give any signal that she didn’t like it, but then he’d handed her a sugar-drenched latte during a bad day and she’d lit up.

He watches as she picks up her mobile and wanders down the hallway, and then takes a sip of his own coffee. It still feels surreal. If this is all a dream and he wakes up alone in Bed-Stuy he’s going to break something. Maybe himself.

The doorbell rings.

That’s weird. It’s probably the artist guy- Natasha’s late for their appointment, he realizes as he glances at the clock. That’s his bad, he can apologize while Natasha’s talking with Phil. Clint makes his way down the hallway as the doorbell rings again. Jesus, this guy’s impatient.

“Hang on,” he calls, gets it unlocked and swings the door open to a faintly familiar-looking man in an ugly yellow shirt.

“Sorry, buddy, I just-” he starts.

A fist slams directly into his nose.

Clint stumbles back, eyes burning from the blow. It’s a nasty one, solid enough to cause some damage, and he sees movement out of his watery gaze, ducks out of the way of another punch. What the _fuck?_ Surely being late to a painting session isn’t worth _that_.

“You fucking touched my _wife,_” Janine’s husband - Gerald? Garfield? Greg? - snarls at him and Clint goes, _ah_.

That’ll do it. He dodges out of the way of another punch, thinks about how miserably unbalanced this man is. He’s trying to kick Clint’s ass, he _is_, but the only advantage he’d had was surprise and he doesn’t even have that now. Clint’s fought things a lot worse than this slightly pudgy old man, and he shifts out of the way of another hit, tries to think of a clever way to get him out of the doorway without harming him.

“It wasn’t consensual,” he yelps as he nearly falls on his ass trying to avoid the next punch.

“You_bastard!_”__

On second thought, that was a bad sentence. Bad. Bad Clint.

“Fuck,” he swears, ducks again.

“Clint,” Natasha says, and he glances back to see her standing there with her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. “Mission’s over. Time to go home.”

“Get out of this town and never come back,” Greg (?) snarls from behind him. “You and your _whore_-”

Clint turns around, grabs him by the head, and slams it into his knee. Greg makes a choked noise and flops to the floor like a particularly ugly fish, and Clint thumbs at the blood under his nose, turns back to Natasha.

She’s smirking.

“Guess we’d better do as the man ordered,” Clint says, feels an answering smirk slide onto his face. “What a shame.”

“Terrible,” Natasha agrees. “And Deep Pond is so lovely, too.”

He leaves Greg on the floor, makes his way over to Natasha. It’s about then that he realizes her mobile phone has a large cracks on it, which is shockingly uncharacteristic of Natasha. Maybe they’d been sent to the wrong place entirely. Clint hopes they’re not going to be sent to another small town - he’s quietly loving the idea of inviting Natasha back to his place for their usual post-mission Chinese and romcoms, with added bonuses now.

“What did Phil say?”

Natasha scowls. “There was no mission in the first place. It was all a ruse.”

“Why would Coulson d- _oh._”

When did Phil decide he was going to play matchmaker?

“We’re gonna get him back, though, right?”

Natasha’s smile makes every nerve in his body light up. “Of course we are.”

The way she says _we_ has all kinds of promise in it, and Clint can't quite squash down the grin. Natasha kisses it anyway.

As they’re getting in the car, he thinks to himself that maybe Deep Pond was forgiven for its many sins, if just because Natasha's fingers are linked with his.

**Author's Note:**

> (Title/Fic additionally inspired by the song Magnati by Sycamour, which you can find here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhCrdIapd8Q )


End file.
